


more than a whisper

by keptein



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: F/M, M/M, Nasir is a gladiator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:51:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keptein/pseuds/keptein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is angry, angry at his dominus for bowing to his wife’s whims and sending them away. He is angry at his dominus’s cowardice, at the thought that every bit of respect Nasir had built up over the years, whatever modicum of power he had managed to obtain, is now gone, vanished as soon as his ownership changed hands, now in the hands of Solonius.<br/>Or, the one where Nasir becomes a gladiator.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>hiatus: see bottom note.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	more than a whisper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kantarin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantarin/gifts).



> Kantarin, you are the literal best, and this fic wouldn't exist without you. Thank you. The title is from _Gladiator_ , in which Marcus Aurelius says the oft-quoted line: "There was once a dream that was Rome. You could only whisper it. Anything more than a whisper and it would vanish, it was so fragile."

The house of Melanus, removed as it is from Capua and the bustle of urban life, has been a quiet place for as long as Nasir has known it. Melanus’s acquiring of a wife, Valyria, was not an immediate sign of this changing, but she proved Nasir’s inklings true soon enough.

“Tiberius, bring the dates,” Melanus says, spread out on the dining couch in the garden. Valyria is smiling at him in the way that Nasir knows means he should make himself scarce.

“I don’t like how he looks at you,” he hears Valyria say before entering the domus. The dates are kept in the kitchen, and he passes several fellow slaves on the way, none of which stop to exchange words with him. Nasir wants to hurry, so he can avoid Valyria’s outburst, but when he returns with the sweetened dates he can see he is too late.

“ _Fulvius_ ,” Valyria says, clutching at Melanus’s robes, her dress crumpling under her knees. “ _Please,_ mea vita, I cannot stand it!” Nasir can see her eyes glinting as he tries to quietly put the plate on the table and leave, but Valyria turns to him in a flash. “Send him away!” she cries. Had they allowed women on the stage, she would never leave, playing Medea and Clytemnestra until her heart shattered.

“Go,” Melanus says, giving Nasir an almost apologetic look. Nasir nods deferentially and goes.

*

“Tiberius,” Melanus starts, when Nasir dresses him the next morning. Nasir has already been to check on the horses and the supplies, and the shade in Melanus’s bedroom is a relief. “You have been of valuable service to me, and I do not wish to see you take my next words in ill meaning. Valyria has taken considerable offense at your presence and mistakenly believe you and Chadara to be some slight against her position in this household.”

Melanus has a flat way of speaking, one that makes Nasir wonder whether he is speaking in untruths or with utmost sincerity. At present, Nasir believes his words true, just as he knows what is to follow – Melanus is not a man to obscure his meaning with honeyed words.

“She wishes me to permanently dismiss you both, and I can no longer persuade her off the thought.”

Nasir keeps his eyes locked downwards, and does not reply. It is not his place. His hands continue to fasten Melanus’s toga, wrapping it around the man.

“Tiberius … “ Melanus breathes out sharply through his nose. “I wish to reward you for your excellent servitude. Is there anything in particular you wish to bring? I may not grant every wish, but I promise I will give most requests considerable thought.”

Nasir is quiet a moment more, until he looks up to meet Melanus’s eyes. “I would ask that Chadara and I leave for the same place, dominus.”

Melanus whistles. “You are ambitious, little Tiberius, and not caught unprepared. Very well – it is of no matter to me. An acquaintance of mine from Capua is sent for, he may be your next dominus. Chadara is lovely, I am of no doubt we can convince him to purchase her as well.”

“Yes, dominus,” Nasir says, a bitter taste on his tongue. He adjusts the way the fabric falls down Melanus’s back and steps back, putting the proper amount of distance between them.

*

“Solonius, my dear friend!”

A wagon rides into the yard and a man steps out, brandishing a limp wrist and a page boy stumbling after.

“Fulvius, what a pleasure,” Solonius drawls. Nasir can see his dominus bristle with the familiarity, but he is not an easily angered man, and he calms himself rapidly. “Where is your lovely wife?”

“Valyria is inside, the current heat disagrees with her,” Melanus says, clasping forearms with Solonius. “How is Capua?”

“Oh, _dreary_ ,” Solonius says. “So I suppose it is much the same as ever.”

“I see,” Melanus says with the hint of a smile. “Would you care for some food before we speak business?”

“Very much appreciated,” Solonius says. “Let us get out of this damnable sun.”

They go inside the domus, Nasir and the page trailing after. The kitchen slaves have been hard at work to impress Solonius – Nasir is briefly glad they are so far from Capua, because the work required to keep up appearances must be constant burden there. Then he remembers that if the gods grant Melanus’s wish, he will be leaving for Capua in Solonius’s wagon, reduced to a mere  house slave – and that it will probably be his main task to keep up appearances. Nasir’s fists clench momentarily.

“Tiberius,” Melanus says, his voice breaking through Nasir’s thoughts. “Fetch us more wine. See if you can find Chadara, and bring her here.”

“Yes, dominus,” Nasir says. Just as he leaves the room, he hears Solonius start to speak: “Is that the slave you want me to buy? He seems – “ before the door to the wine cellar moves shut behind him.

*

He finds Chadara refilling the oil lamps on the balcony. Their domina likes to sit there in the dead of night, after even Apollo’s chariot has passed over the skies and the gods rest.

“Dominus summons you,” Nasir says, and Chadara almost spills the oil before turning with a laugh.

“Nimble Nasir, quick as a cat,” she teases, using his real name only because they are the sole people on the balcony. Nasir would rather he was Tiberius, always – but Chadara insists names are important, that she should use it lest Nasir forgot he was _Nasir_ , and not Tiberius. Sometimes, Nasir wonders what would be so bad about forgetting he is not Tiberius. He does not tell Chadara this. “What does he want? Am I to entertain Solonius?” There is a twist to her mouth at the words, although Nasir does not think it is unhappy. Chadara has settled with the idea that her body is the only thing of worth, and whatever Nasir does to try and make her believe otherwise, he never succeeds.

“We are being sold,” Nasir says, and Chadara’s eyes widen.

“Oh,” she says. Then, “why did you not tell me?”

“I had not opportunity,” Nasir says. “I was only told yesterday.” Chadara was sent to town with Servus and Fene, buying wheat and delicacies for their guest. There is a breath of cooling wind that fans over them, bringing with it sounds of laughter from within the house.

Chadara reasserts her hold on the can of oil to squeeze Nasir’s shoulder, once. They look into each other’s eyes for a long second, until Nasir breaks her gaze.

“Come,” he says, and leads her down to the main hall. Chadara hands the pot off to another slave they pass.

“ – because I said his gladiators would _never measure up!_ ” Solonius finishes, and he and Melanus explode with laughter. Valyria smiles pleasantly.

“I have to admit,” Melanus says, drying his tears with his hand, “I do not miss Batiatus.”

“I envy your life out here, friend,” Solonius says fervently. “If only because of lack of shit’s presence. Now, then. These are the two?”

Melanus waves Nasir and Chadara forward, and they both come to a stop with their backs straight, heads bowed and hands clasped behind back.

“Yes. I know it was originally just the one, but Chadara is of exemplary beauty and grace, and I felt you deserving of her service as well.”

From below the hair falling into her face, Nasir can see Chadara smile a little.

“Hmm,” Solonius says. “I have no need for another house slave.”

“No wife on the horizon yet?” Melanus says humorously, a belated reply to Solonius’s insult upon his arrival. “They are both trained in the matters of the flesh, if that may sway you. Chadara, take off your dress.“

She does it complacently, and Solonius makes another thoughtful noise. Valyria, who has yet to speak, waves for a slave to refill her cup of wine. “Very well,” he says at last. “how much do you want for them?”

“Ten dinari each,” Melanus says pleasantly. “A small price to pay for a pair of loyal and trained slaves.”

“Ten for the both of them,” Solonius retorts. “I will have to get them re-branded.”

“Fifteen,” Melanus says.

“Fifteen,” Solonius agrees. They shake hands on it, and Valyria smiles widely.

“I think that deserves another cup of wine, don’t you, Fulvius? Chadara, cover yourself.”

“Indeed. Servus, bring us the Falernian wine!”

Nasir and Chadara have not moved an inch throughout the entire transaction, but Melanus finally waves them out of sight. They go back out on the balcony, deserted under the sun, and cling to each other for a stolen moment.

“What luck,” Chadara whispers in Nasir’s ear, “that I will yet have you by my side.”

“Not luck,” Nasir replies. “The gods favor us.”

Chadara does not argue, but grips Nasir tighter.

*

The wagon bumps under Nasir as it moves along the road to Capua. Nasir and Chadara sit in the back, looking at their domus getting further and further away. There are no words between them. Nasir sees the sun reflecting in Chadara’s silent tears. Her lack of sound is not for his benefit, but her own – Chadara knows Nasir would never hold them against her.

He is angry, angry at Melanus for bowing to his wife’s whims and sending them away. He is angry at Melanus’s cowardice, at the thought that every bit of respect Nasir  had built up over the years, whatever modicum of power he had managed to obtain, is now gone.

Melanus is not a good man, but he is a known entity, to the point where Nasir knew the man’s moods better than his own. The only matter known of Solonius is that he is an unmarried lanista from Capua. He will have his body slave, who runs the house, and the new arrivals will be at very bottom of hierarchy.

It is, in a way, easier for Chadara, for she was not of such high position previous – but Nasir does not welcome the change, and as the wagon bumps on and the silence grows heavy, he grows more worried with each felt rock on the road. He does not cry, but if he did, the sun would dry his wet cheeks as quickly as they do Chadara’s.

*

“This is my domus,” Solonius says as they step down from the wagon. Nasir can smell the difference between this domus and Melanus’s in the air, an underlying stench of humanity that stems from the streets of Capua. “And that,” he points to a building within easy reach, but still adamantly not a part of the domus, “is my ludus. Equrius!”

“Yes, dominus,” a slave says, having stepped quickly out of the domus at the wagon’s arrival.

“Equrius is my body slave,” Solonius explains. Unnecessarily, Nasir thinks, as it is painfully obvious to someone who held that position former. “He will find appropriate tasks for you.” He turns to Equrius. “Place her in the house and him in the ludus. They wear Melanus’s mark, I would have it removed as quick as possible.”

 _In the ludus_ , is all Nasir hears. _Place him in the ludus_. For a furious moment, he cannot believe he is to be a ludus slave. He, who was his master’s most trusted and respected slave? He has accompanied Melanus to the arena, has even seen the Champion of Capua fight, and the idea of being at the whim of those men leaves a sour taste in his mouth and a pressure in the back of his skull.

There are gladiators with honor, he knows, like The Undefeated Gaul or the famed Gannicus, but Solonius’s stock is not known for its reverence of the arena, or even the gods. Nasir does not fear them – he has had fear as his constant companion for so long that he does not remember what it is like to have it focused in jagged, sharp points – but he would rather be absent their dominance.

All of this is the reason why Nasir, when Solonius turns to leave, calls out, “Dominus.”

“Yes?” Solonius says, perturbed. He turns back reluctantly, the shade of the domus obviously tempting him.

Nasir swallows. “I would desire to know whether there are any places I might be of use, other than the ludus.”

Chadara freezes, and Equrius lets out a small sound. Nasir could be punished greatly for this, essentially questioning his dominus, but some reckless spark in him tells him that he has nothing to lose. He meets Solonius’s gaze with steel behind his eyes.

Melanus would have backhanded him immediately, but Solonius simply pauses a second before he laughs. Nasir remembers the wine he was plied with. “You have spirit, little man,” he says amusedly, his limp wrist making a reappearance. “But no.”

Nasir slumps, an involuntary reaction he berates himself for not hiding.

“Although,” Solonius continues, “I do always need more gladiators … but, well.” He gestures to Nasir’s chest, and his chuckle this time is condescending. “I do not wish you such an early death.”

Quick as lightning, Nasir can see two paths unfold in front of him. Down one, he is a ludus slave, completely absent respect or position, but down the other …

Down the other, he is awarded the freedom of a gladiator, and has to bow and scrape to no one except Solonius himself. He remembers the Gaul upon the sands, the honor of it.

“Please,” Nasir says.

Solonius snorts. “Equrius,” he calls, “punch him.”

“D- dom-,” Equrius stutters, before he swallows and moves in front of Nasir. His fist, when raised, is weak and arbitrarily pushed away.

“Again.”

Nasir deflects his punch again, although Equrius puts a little more force behind it.

“Again.”

Nasir tastes blood on his teeth before he gets Equrius underneath himself. He cannot retaliate, cannot punch the body slave of his dominus even though he dearly wants to, but he can slam Equrius’s body into the ground a little harder than needed. Nasir cannot fight with honor, but he knows how to make a man hurt – looking like he does, it has been a necessary lesson in life.

“ _Again_ ,” Solonius says, and Nasir wonders whether this is the result of being raised by a lanista.

Finally, when Nasir is riddled with scrapes and there is the taste of blood in his mouth, Solonius says, “Enough. You have until the next day of Mercury to show your worth – at the very least, I expect a retarius tunicatus of you.”

The insult barely fazes Nasir. He only says, “Thank you, dominus.”

*

It was late when they arrived at the domus, and the sun is setting now. Equrius curtly shoves him into a small room already filled with three other men and tells him he will be with him in the morning – for now, he should rest.

Nasir cannot help but note Equrius cradling his injured knuckles with satisfaction, even as he wishes to exact retribution on Solonius himself.

The three men look at him with badly hidden suspicion. “And who are you,” one says.

“They call me Tiberius,” Nasir says.

“You will have to sleep on the floor,” a second says, vaguely disinterested.

“Tiberius,” the third one says. “You’re not a fucking Roman.”

“No,” Nasir agrees. “And I would like to rest now.”

The first one opens his mouth to speak, but the second one slaps him on the head before he can do so. He gives him a dark look and lies back down on his bed, while Nasir tries to find the most comfortable corner. The day has been such a tumult of emotion and expectation that he falls asleep immediately, despite the hardness of the stone floor.

*

“Stance one,” is the first thing their doctore says as he steps out on the sands the next morning, the sun already beating hot over them. Nasir stands at the end of the line, a wooden sword clenched in his right hand, sweat making him adjust his grip every few minutes. The other gladiators – his fellow gladiators, Nasir thinks dizzily – fall into an offensive stance, almost at once. Nasir imitates the man next to him with ill luck and a second’s hesitation, but neither the man nor the doctore pay him any mind.

“Stance two,” the doctore says, and Nasir tries as best he can to replicate the defensive stance he sees on his left.

“Stance three,” and this one almost makes Nasir lose his balance, a quick slash he forgets to compensate for. Fortunately, they go through these stances until the sun is a solidified presence among them, making the men twitch and moan. With a sigh, the doctore breaks for the midday meal – a look towards Nasir tells him he is temporarily exempt from this.

“Solonius told me of you,” the doctore says without preamble as Nasir nears. “No earlier training?”

“No, doctore,” Nasir says.

The doctore frowns. “You’ll be treated no different than any other here,” he says. “Do not think your earlier position will aid you, as it will do you shit in the arena. What is your name?”

“Tiberius,” Nasir says, before he has time to think through the choice he is offered.

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” the doctore says, snorting. “My name is Methodus, but you may refer to me by title. As you arrive alone, you have no natural sparring partner – I will have you against Hieronymos, he is the weakest of the set before you. But eat first, and eat well. You look like a common slave, not a gladiator.”

He claps Nasir’s shoulder, pushing him toward the food and drink being served inside the house of the ludus. Nasir goes, a bemused buzzing in his head.

The inside of the ludus is cool and comfortable. Nasir is content to grab his bowl of food and sit in solitary silence as he observes his new environment, and the men mostly let him be. This whole new turn his life has taken has the qualities of a wishful dream, an intangible hope that will fade as soon as Nasir wakes up a ludus slave. He feels like the ground underneath him is unstable, as if he cannot grasp the crux of the situation he is in.

He frees his right hand and studies it, the deepening red where calluses will form, the shadow of the wooden shaft he can still feel when he closes his fist. Nasir is still angry, he suspects he will be angry for a long time, but there is a freedom in the sands that he has longed for, a promise of position and protection that he will have to kill for.

He remembers Solonius’s delay of decision with bitter distaste, remembers Melanus’s careless disregard, and as he finishes his bowl he resolves that it matters not whether his opponent is Hieronymos or Mars himself – to him, it will be his dominus, past and present.

*

Jeering comments about his looks and stature are nothing new to Nasir, and he has heard them spoken with much more fervor than here. Still, as he faces Hieronymos and hears his laughter, his right arm tightens around the wooden sword in anger. Nasir moves forward with a yell and no clear aim, and Hieronymos stops laughing to meet Nasir’s sword with his own, pushes it away and raises it again, coming down hard on Nasir’s shoulder. Nasir stumbles back, angry and embarrassed, and charges at Hieronymos again. They’re fighting without shields, a courtesy to Nasir which Hieronymos finds insulting – he is not quiet in his dissatisfaction.

Nasir is knocked back again, this time so he falls to the ground. He spits and gets up again. Hieronymos is on the offensive now, and Nasir enters a modified version of the second stance before he really has time to think about it, one that allows Hieronymos’s blade to slide away on his own. Nasir twists with the movement, so he can grip Hieronymos’s shoulder and push him after his sword, and he plants the tip of his own between Hieronymos’s shoulder blades.

“Good,” Methodus calls out. “He has weight and strength on his side, Tiberius, but you have speed. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Yes, doctore,” Nasir replies from beneath a sweating brow as he tries to catch his breath.

He goes against Hieronymos a few more times, but the weight of his sword is still unfamiliar to him, and each time Hieronymos puts him to the ground, he bars his teeth in a decidedly unnerving way. Methodus breaks them up after some rounds.

“Hieronymos, go against Gyuri,” he says. “Corraidhín! Grab shield for yourself and Tiberius, and teach him how to move.”

Corraidhìn shows himself to be the disinterested man Nasir is sharing a room with. He is fair of hair, but his face seems overly familiar with the lines of a scowl, and he is of slight build, although his frame still towers above Nasir.

“You,” Corraidhìn says. “Tiberius?”

Nasir nods.

Corraidhìn sighs, like the gods themselves have conspired against him. “You are small,” he says, “so you will have to be quick. You are not strong, so you will have to have stamina. You will be underestimated. That is an advantage.”

There was a Celt slave under Melanus, one he often used as his body guard. Corraidhìn reminds Nasir of him, and he is surprised by the ferocity of the reminder, of the relief of finding something known. He wonders how Chadara is handling her new position.

“Let them think I am less than I am,” Nasir clarifies, and Corraidhìn nods.

“It is one of your few defenses,” he says. “Some will tell you there is no honor in it. They are wrong – there is honor in finding your way in the arena, and for someone like you, that is the only way.”

Nasir nods again.

“Come at me,” Corraidhìn says, and after a pause Nasir does, raising his sword and launching forward –

“No, no,” Corraidhìn says, looking almost bored as he easily sidesteps Nasir. “Did I not tell you? You are not strong, so you will be quick. Attack like this.” He leans forward, an almost imperceptible hunch, and then Nasir feels a flurry of smacks, tracking backwards to avoid them – he stumbles, tries to get his sword up to defend himself, but Corraidhìn never hits him straight on, the sword jabbing his sides and arms.

Corraidhìn stops and looks at him. “You also have a shield,” he says dryly, “which it would be helpful to remember.”

Nasir looks down at his left arm and tightens his grip on the shield, and this time he doesn’t wait for Corraidhìn’s permission.

*

Afterwards, Corraidhìn gives him a set of exercises in speed and endurance. Nasir thanks him, but Corraidhìn roughly states that his only motivation is the doctore’s command. Nasir does not quite believe him, but he refrains from speaking.

His session with Corraidhìn has gained him more attention than he would like. Especially the man named Aemilius, the only one of Solonius’s gladiators Nasir had heard of previous to his arrival, looks at him with narrowed eyes. Still, Nasir lifts his blocks in silence, reassuring himself that he is making good progress and that Solonius will let him continue come day of Mercury.

*

“Supper,” Methodus calls eventually, and Nasir lets the block fall from his shoulders with a relieved sigh. As he enters the cooling shade of the ludus house, his path is blocked by Aemilius.

“Do not imagine yourself of worth, just because you have become Corraidhìn’s bitch dog,” he spits, making full use of his size – Nasir could fit double in Aemilius’s skin, and still leave enough room for Aemilius’s ego.

“I will take care not to,” Nasir replies, and goes to sit down. Aemilius’s arm stops him.

“You carry yourself like a slave,” he hisses, before dropping his arm and walking away. Nasir tries to make sense of Aemilius’s parting words as he retrieves his portion and sits down, solitary once again.

Or so he thinks. “Salve,” a man says as he sits next to Nasir, his Gallic accent heavy.

“Salve,” Nasir says.

“You are small man,” the man says. “Aemilius is big man. You do not win.”

“May be,” Nasir allows, taking a bite of his bread and feeling it crunch beneath his teeth. It is of poorer quality than the bread he ate at Melanus’s, with more stone in it.

The man laughs. “Small, but with spirit,” he says. “Good. I am Brennus.”

“My name is Tiberius.”

“Tiberious? You?” Brennus says disbelievingly. “No one tell you? No Roman names, amice!”

“No Roman names? It is Nasir’s turn to be disbelieving. “There is no rule against Roman names in the arena.”

Brennus shakes his head. “Solonius likes it not.”

Nasir lets out a breath, brow furrowing. “He is a strange dominus,” he says, knowing his words treacherous and treading lightly.

Luckily, Brennus just laughs, nodding his agreement.

“What of Aemilius, then?” Nasir asks after a short break. “Is that not Roman?”

Brennus shrugs. “Aemilius is Roman,” he says. “Rules are different.”

Nasir raises his eyebrows. He has never heard of a Roman gladiator before, although he knows it is done – plebeians condemned to ludi for major transgressions, in the true spirit of the Roman people. Entertain or die.

They eat the rest of their meal in silence, although Nasir is not unaware of how chatter about him slows once Brennus stays in his company. There is a dynamic to this ludus Nasir will have to get intimately familiar with, a new hierarchy to acquaint himself with, if he wants to stay – both stay here, and stay alive.

*

That night, after Nasir’s knees have buckled twice in exhaustion, Corraidhìn gives him a nod as they lie down to sleep, and the tangible proof he is doing well is something Nasir grips onto with both hands, fists white-knuckled in sleep.

*

On the third day, Melanus’s mark is removed and he is branded anew. The coolness of dusk has settled when he is summoned from the ludus, and Equrius barely spares him a glance on the short walk.

It hurts, but at this point, it is merely another ache placed on Nasir’s body, to be dealt with along with his sparring injuries.

He sees Chadara on his way out of the domus, the bandage on her shoulder similar to his, but she is gone before he can say anything.

*

The next few days pass in much the same fashion as the ones previous. Nasir trains himself to the bone, eats more in one sitting than he used to eat in an entire day, and improves upon the battleground – his hands are callused and covered in splinters, but picking up the sword and shield feels more natural each day. Aemilius has not broken words with him again, and slowly, but surely, Nasir gains acquaintances. He has fought against Hieronymos often, but they are more evenly matched now that Nasir has his feet under him, and Hieronymos does not treat him without respect.

Then comes the day of Mercury, and a hush settles over the ludus as Solonius enters.

“Salvete,” Solonius says.

“Salve, dominus,” the gladiators echo as one.

The same page boy Nasir saw that first day is trailing after Solonius, a wax tablet clutched in his hand. Accounts, most likely, some paper to write down Nasir’s fate.

Solonius takes his time sizing the men up before he points to Nasir. “You. Time to show your worth. Methodus, arm him – and Aemilius.”

Aemilius. _Aemilius?_ He is lucky if he retains his life, much less _wins_ , Nasir thinks, nauseated. Solonius never meant for him to succeed. He only meant to ridicule Nasir, taunt him with the life he may have had, then force him to be a ludus slave for the rest of his life, serving the men he for all too short a time stood equal with.

He is handed a shield and a wooden sword – that it is not steel is some small relief – and he grips them, but faintly. His eyes find Brennus’s in the crowd, and the Gaul smiles widely at him.

Fuck the gods, Nasir thinks, and then Aemilius is upon him.

He is fast, but not as fast as Corraidhìn, and for a moment Nasir is filled with hope only to be knocked back as he feels the force of Aemilius’s blows. He raises his sword, but it is little hindrance, and he knows he has to _move_. Nasir tries to dart out of the way of Aemilius’s sword, moves left and right to hinder their impact. His own retaliation is weak and easily deflected, but Nasir manages to get behind Aemilius, raises his sword and it strikes Aemilius’s shoulder – but Aemilius moves with the strike, twisting Nasir’s sword and his wrist with it, and then all he can feel is the ground underneath his back, the tip of Aemilius’s sword pressing into his throat.

It is over.

Nasir has to close his eyes against the well of rage within him, his head spinning and his thoughts with it. It was a foolish notion, a dream fit for boys still at their mother’s teat, how could Nasir think that _he –_

The sound of someone slowly clapping brings Nasir back to the present. “Stand up,” Solonius says, and Nasir does.

There is silence in the ludus.

“Well done,” says Solonius. “You may fulfill this death-wish of yours.”

Nasir cannot hide his gape, even as it goes against every slave manner ever beaten into him.

Solonius raises his eyebrows. “What, do you think I expected you to _win_? That you were not beat down immediately is a point in your favor, and already above my expectations.”

Someone comes to take Nasir’s sword and shield from him, and Nasir does not even have the wits to thank them. “Dominus,” he says, finally.

Solonius waves his limp wrist. “Write it down, Rure,” he says, and the page boy nods enthusiastically, his stylus already in the air and moving. “What was your name?”

“Tiberius,” Nasir answers, and Solonius scoffs.

“No,” he says. “What is your _name_?”

“Nasir.”

“Better,” Solonius says. “Nasir, slave of Marcus Decius Solonius, has on the twenty-seventh of June, day of Mercury, been appointed gladiator. His life and death is for the munera and the people of Rome.”

And with that, Nasir is a gladiator.

**Author's Note:**

> Latin glossary:  
> mea vita – my love (literally my life)  
> Salve / Salvete – a greeting (single / plural)  
> amice – friend  
> munera – gladiatorial games
> 
>  
> 
> **Please note: this fic is on hiatus until I've finished Can't Take the Sky from Me, because I need to get properly into Spartacus headspace again, and I can't do that while writing other stuff.**


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